


When You're Gone Who Will Burn The Bones?

by lapsus_calami



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Short, but like in a happy way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3575532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death asks Dean an important question. The end of the Sam and Dean story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You're Gone Who Will Burn The Bones?

**Author's Note:**

> It's not really a happy-happy story, but it's kind of a happy story, you know?

**When You're Gone Who Will Burn The Bones?**

“Sam, Sammy. Wake up. No. No. Come on, Sam, don’t do this to me, man. Not again. Please, please,” Dean begged cradling his little brother to him and staring at the slack face. “Come on, Sam. The bastard’s dead and you’re not really going to let him get one up on you are you? Sam?”

Dean clenched his hands in Sam’s coat fighting and fleeing from the truth of the scene in front of him. It was a simple hunt. A simple spirit. After all the shit they had been through it was almost sacrilegious that this was how it ended. Dean smoothed Sam’s hair back, letting himself fall forward onto Sam’s chest clenching his eyes shut and wondering if there was a way for him to simply disappear.

His mind was jumbled, trying desperately to figure out what his next move should be, but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even breathe right. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean jerked, hunching even more protectively over Sam before twisting around to stare up in shock at the man towering over him. Death looked exactly like Dean remembered him from the clothes right down to the look of quiet condescension with compassion lurking just beneath. “What are you doing here?” he rasped haltingly, uncaring at how pathetic a picture he made.

Death sighed. “Now, Dean, even you aren’t that unintelligent.”

Dean frowned and glanced back at Sam, heart stuttering in his chest. He was getting a condolences visit from Death? How screwed up was his life?

Death sighed again brushing dirt from his shoulders. “Never mind, I suppose you are,” he said softly and Dean couldn’t even summon the energy to be offended, simply clenched his hands reflexively in Sam’s coat. “I’m not here for Sam, or rather I’ve already spoken with him,” Death said a little louder clasping his hands around his cane.

Dean furrowed his brows craning his neck back to meet Death’s gaze. “What?”

“He’s done, Dean,” Death said, a small almost comforting smile tugging on his lips. “He’s tired. He’s done so much, you both have.”

“I don’t, I don’t understand,” Dean said, having trouble wrapping his brain around what Death was implying. The words were clamoring in his head but they weren’t making much sense.  

“Now, I don’t usually do this, but in your case I suppose I can make an exception,” Death said. He unclasped his hands, leaning down slightly to extend a hand to Dean.

Dean stared at the offered hand, glancing from it to Death’s countenance and back to Sam uncomprehendingly.

“Come with me, Dean.”

Dean shook his head. “I can’t.”

Death nodded, smile widening just a bit. “Yes, you can. You’ve done so much, it’s time to rest.”

Dean shook his head harder peering up and feeling so much like a small child in the face of such an infinite being. “But Cas and Charlie and Kevin…”

“Have much to do yet,” Death replied. “Their times will come. But _you_ , you have been living on borrowed time for so long now. Come home, Dean. Your family is waiting.”

Dean felt his breath stutter in his lungs, looked down at Sammy once more before sending out a silent apology.

Death’s hand was warm as Dean grasped it and was pulled to his feet.

* * *

“Two victims. Both male, Caucasian, mid to late thirties, brought in early this morning,” Martha said rolling out the bodies of the two unfortunates. One Sasquatch and one Pretty-should-have-been-a-model.

“So no confirmed ID?” the somewhat lanky Agent asked. If Martha were an opinion-spouting woman, she’d say the man was far too scrawny to be an FBI agent but what did she know? The government was in charge of that sort of thing. She was just a coroner for a backwoods town.

“Not yet. We’re running their prints through AFIS but it’s improbable we’ll get a match,” she replied. Or the police department was supposed to be running the prints through AFIS. Whenever they got their lazy butts around to doing their jobs.

The agent nodded and turned his head slightly away, lips tilting up in an aborted half smile. “Hmm, yes I suspect you won’t. Cause of death?”

Martha shook her head, maybe the agents had an inside joke over AFIS, before turning her attention back to the bodies. She walked over to Sasquatch gently turning the man’s head. “Well this one suffered what appears to be blunt force trauma to the back of the head and to the spinal column. Death was most likely instantaneous.”

The agent nodded, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat before saying, “And the other?”

Martha sighed moving over to the other man. Far too pretty to be dead so young. Like her mother always said: live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse. “Not a mark on him,” she said. “He’s in perfect health except for the whole being dead part. No apparent COD.”

“Well, that is certainly strange,” the agent muttered peering closer. Martha huffed shaking her head.

“You’re telling me, Agent. I’ve seen some weird cases but I’m telling you, no reason this guy should be dead,” she said tapping Pretty’s shoulder. It was really such as shame, for both of them.

The agent leaned in even closer, like putting his face directly next to Pretty’s would tell him the secret. Martha shrugged, some cops had weird practices, and turned away beginning to roll Sasquatch back in. “Well he was never one to follow the rules,” the agent said softly.

Martha stopped sure she had misheard. “I’m sorry?”

“Nothing, never mind. Thank you for your time,” the agent said straightening up. He cast one last, almost longing, look at the two dead men before tipping his hat to her and turning to leave.

“Yeah, sure,” Martha finally managed to say. She wasn’t sure what was stranger about this case: the victims or the agent. “Anytime, Agent Fizzles.”

* * *

The bodies of Sasquatch and Pretty were gone by the next day. Martha had no idea how a person would manage, or even want, to steal two dead bodies of men over six feet tall. Probably would have had to be _people_ , as in plural. More than one. Like three or four.

The police department tried calling Agent Fizzles but the number he left was out of service, and they couldn’t track him down. The prints came back from AFIS for Dean and Sam Winchester, infamous serial killers and dead several times over according to their records. Martha was pretty sure the department just said screw it after that and figured anything dealing with the Winchesters was bound to not make any sense.

Two days after the bodies went missing a strange, blue-eyed man in a trench coat came by to collect the personal effects.

About that time a rumor started around the office that the Winchesters weren’t really dead and their bodies weren’t stolen so much as they got up and walked out.

Martha considered herself a rather cynical woman as well as no slouch at her job, and she was absolutely sure that both men had been deceased (for almost twenty-four hours) even if Dean was dead for no apparent reason. Hell, she basically cut them to pieces. They were quite dead. No question about it.

But she watched the national news every night anyway, never really sure what she expected or was looking for because she never got it. Dean and Sam were either dead or gone, and Martha was still fairly certain it was the former. And when she thought back to the first time she saw them—Sam prone on the pavement in the alley and Dean slumped over him—and thought of their history and what was known about them, well she couldn’t help but feel that perhaps they’d finally found a modicum of peace.

* * *

In time the legend of the Winchesters faded and became distorted; the truth and the myths running rampant in the Hunting community until it was nearly impossible to tell the difference. The Winchesters were idols and a cautionary tale rolled into one, a story told to nearly every new comer of those hunters right up there on the list with Samuel Colt, but who did everything wrong, sometimes too invested in one another as they were (or perhaps are). There were those who swore oaths the Winchesters were still alive, out of touch and out of sight, but still hunting to this very day—immortal. Coming back again like they had time and time before if the stories were to be believed.

But if you asked the right hunters and dug deep enough you’d hear a tale of two funeral pyres lit side by side in an old junk yard, land owned and paid for by one Susan Asimov, the site now eternally marked by a rusting 1967 Impala and a massive oak tree.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at [lapsuscalamiwriting](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


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